


Misplaced Optimism

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Boot Stepping On Genitals, Bottom Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Typical Jon/Martin, Clawing, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, Trans Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans PIV, Treat, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 09:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30120717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Daisy is in heat when she tracks down Jon alone. He thinks if she remembers what they were to each other she might regain her humanity. Tags are warnings.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Kink Lucky Dip





	Misplaced Optimism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gazimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gazimon/gifts).



> Content notes: In addition to the dubcon heat scene it is implied Jon and Daisy used to have consensual FWB sex during S4. Both characters are written as trans, though there is no dysphoria or transphobia. Terms used for Jon are clit, cunt, etc. Terms used for Daisy are cock, dick, knot, etc.

Jon knows Daisy's found him long before she does.

"Might be a long one," he tells Martin as he sheepishly excuses himself to the other side of the domain. It's hardly the first time Martin's had him going into the other room to eat, as it were. It's fine. Jon used to take lunch in his office with the door closed just to avoid kitchen small talk, had several appliances in his single in college for the same reason. Even in high school he'd often eat in a spare classroom rather than risk having his sandwich thrown on the grounds by would-be tormentors. So despite the awkwardness of Martin's disapproval, it doesn't bother him to read his statements alone, with only the tape recorder and the Eye for company. Something unpleasant crunches underfoot as he strolls along, already beginning his litany.

And this time ... this time the prickle of being watched is something separate from the constant knowledge that everything he does, every kiss and mutter and fart, is beheld and catalogued. It's because of Daisy, who has run so far for so long, slinking around the side of the twisted garden, working out her angle of approach.

"If you're hoping to catch me unawares, I'm afraid that's just not possible anymore," Jon says mildly, forcing himself to halt the statement near-done (it's not easy but it's easier than it was during his grand apotheosis, the releasing of the cataclysm.) 

She's still human, or human shaped. Isn't always, he knows, loping monstrous through the world as Basira's white whale. shifting into something that can move better, run faster, kill quicker. Nobody, none of them are really human anymore, not in the ways that used to matter. But she walks on two legs, snarls at him with a mouth instead of a snout, when she comes rushing out towards him at impossible speed.

"Daisy," he says, "Daisy _stop_ ," but she's on him, knocking him to the ground, all panting madness and hot breath and her short hair wild.

"Jon," she manages like it's torn out of a throat not meant for speaking, and a flicker of pity-disgust curls through him at the way she's still struggling against the power that has chosen her to feed it. But perhaps that's just the old self-loathing of a man looking in a mirror.

There was a time back in the Institute when she was such an anchor for him. They'd looked into each other's worst bits and accepted them, found a sort of peace together in the midst of everything else happening. Partly it was simple resonance: they had both chosen to change something about themselves, in a way that society said made them a community. And they were helping each other cope with what they both sort of saw as an addiction, however foolish that metaphor felt to Jon now. That was another sort of community, the kind with steps and meetings. Jon didn't have much experience with community, and he naively thought it was better, more solid than family or colleagues. That it meant something when Daisy had held his hand deep below the ground, when he'd listened to the Archers with his head in her lap or massaged her long bare feet.

That woman, quiet and brusque and filled with guilt, is still there in the beast that pins him down. He's sure of it — not in a way of Knowing, but something more like faith. Or hope, perhaps, however masochistic it was to keep allowing himself hope. Martin's influence, he's sure.

"I've been looking for you," she says. Hunting him, yes. Driven by a need created before this new universe. Back when they had a cracked, jagged, human way of relating, pressed together on the camp bed in his office, letting her find the release of pleasure in him, taking the release of pain in payment.

Now the pain she wants to inflict on him is far less deliberate, and her claws are tearing at his clothes, and he pushes away her hands — "I'll do it." Martin would notice if he came back with them all in rags.

"I'll do it," he says again, and she eases off, frenzied but trying. "You can do whatever you need to with me, Daisy." The clothes (which he removes carefully and folds and sets aside) can be torn and broken, but this body can't. Not in any way that matters; he heals swifter than ever now. Besides. Perhaps he'd welcome a little pain of his own. Something unpleasant. The pain of everyone else has been all too lovely, a constant euphoria, regular delicious meals, bright and happy sadism. She can't turn him into a victim, not properly, not in the way this place works. But she scares him, is one of the few things that truly and personally terrifies him still, and that's enough for him to serve as her prey in this.

When he's naked, she's on him again, no more restraint. Tosses him back down to the dirt and steps over him, puts her boot over his bare cunt and steps there.

"Nasty little runt," she spits. "You've been gagging for my cock since I had that knife to your throat. Should have slit it open and fucked it." Jon closes his eyes. Yes, this is exactly what he wants. He angles his hips up, grinds his clit against the filthy sole of her shoe, trying to stimulate himself to wetness since he knows what she came here desperate for, Knows the unnatural heat built and roiling beneath her skin. 

The way he offers himself makes Daisy laugh, a bark in the truest sense, wildness in her throat. "Slut," she teases him and starts to get her cock out. "Can't wait to be filled up again, can you?" She steps harder, and he cries out at the blunt pain of it.

Her dick is bigger than he remembers. She didn't like to penetrate with it, so they'd mostly used their fingers on each other, fierce and rapid to quiet a mutual skin hunger, both of them understanding what it meant to them even if an outsider would not. It had helped, at the time. Now her dick juts red from the fur of her groin, shiny-slick all over and sharp at the tip. Canine. Jon knows that she's in heat, that she wouldn't do this to him otherwise. Wouldn't kick him over, dig her claws deep into his hips and lift them high as she wants them. Wouldn't spit down between them as the only lube he gets before she's ramming into his cunt, mercilessly fast and deep. His muscles clamp reflexively against the unfamiliar shock and pain, which only makes it worse, really, especially when she begins to move.

"Fuck," Daisy pants, hips rapid, smacking against Jon's ass. It's a blinding fire below his waist, pierced skin and stretched muscles, the bruising treatment of his most delicate folds of skin. The angle forces deep gut-level arousal, too, building just below his bladder as her cock stretches him, like the way her fingers could sometimes coax him to ejaculate over her hand — but more, somehow. More pressure, more visceral need rising, and his dropped head is pounding and his hands are filthy where they grit into the dirt desperately. His chest is being scraped raw, he's bitten his own lip bloody, his clit feels like a live wire. And there's a statement still unfinished, that too itches like a rash.

Daisy, he tells himself, this is for Daisy. The part of her still in there that chose him, that wanted him. He can take this from her, for her. 

Jon comes hard and wet well before she knots him, everything white heat. Even that he's fully conscious through, the world still screaming in the back of his mind. Still aware of the domain, the Eye over them, of Daisy and how much of her is Daisy. All of that swirls through his orgasm and becomes a part of it, overstimulating him along with the relentless drive of that huge cock reshaping his insides. He shudders and shudders, unable to control any part of his body, the way she keeps using him stretching the feeling onwards until finally it abates to twitching and his limbs go pliant.

Then she fucks in deep and comes, swells to keep it there. A mating instinct, like all of this is, and her dick fills him with pulse after pulse of thick cum, so much that he feels impossibly full with it. Hot all the way to his stomach. Stretched taut.

Her claws withdraw first, with a slick gory noise, blood still spilling down his thighs even as the wounds start to heal. Her hand is still red and wet with it when it covers his own, links their fingers. Her tits press warm against his back, nosing at the nape of his neck, and one hand reaches around his hip.

"Daisy," he says roughly. "I don't expect you to—"

"Shh," she murmurs. "Let me make it good for you."

She knows what he likes — that is, she's very familiar with how to make him come, the way he likes his nipples pinched and then his clit, wants it vigorously rubbed to sensitive and swollen and then flicked to orgasm. Her claws ring against him and Jon comes around her again with a sob, flexing over her knot and making her croon. It's lovely. It's awful.

They're silent together. Mingled come drips from him where it's oozing out around her knot and slipping down over his cunt. He's a mess all over, tears and sweat and blood, trembling in her arms, but it's hardly the first time she's taken him apart — and it's worth it, anyway, if she can find a way to be that Daisy again. His Daisy. Perhaps she could even travel with he and Martin, help them with Elias.

She pulls out with her knot still thick enough it tears him, and Jon yelps. His hands are too dirty to feel himself gingerly out, but Daisy does so with two testing fingers, playing with the swollen flesh, pushing blood-streaked come back into him.

"Thanks," she says, and whatever moment they were gestating there is obviously broken now. "Gotta go."

"You don't have to, you could—"

"Basira's catching up," she says shortly, not upset but simply starting to lose interest in speech again. When she grins at him her teeth are sharp, and Jon has a sinking feeling he hasn't managed to save her from anything at all.

"You could at least give me something to clean up with," he huffs, because being stiffly annoyed about small things stops him from the eternal screaming breakdown that seems to howl constantly through him, the void of joy and terror and joy-in-terror. There's no point in crying about anything that happens to any individual person any more. So instead he just focuses on getting dressed again, wiping his hands off on his trousers because there's nowhere else to them, and wondering how he's going to explain this to Martin.

Perhaps, with Daisy disappearing over the horizon again, without another word, he won't really have to say anything at all.

Jon sighs. His throat feels raw — did he scream? He doesn't remember screaming. The tape is still rolling, perhaps he can listen back later and find out. "Statement resumes," he says, shaky, and it does.


End file.
